


Halloween Hangover and The Resultant Review

by puff22_2001



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Drunkenness, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hangover, M/M, Male Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Swearing, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:12:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puff22_2001/pseuds/puff22_2001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newt wakes hung-over and miserable. As the events of the night return to him, the biologist also remembers why he got blitzed in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halloween Hangover and The Resultant Review

Why did he smell vomit? Newt cracked one glazed green eye, something once-fluid sticking to his face as he shifted, and gave a weak sniff. Yes, that was definitely vomit in the air.

What had he done last night? He had gone to Tendo’s quarters for his Halloween party, one of the few that the Shatterdome could ever muster. The theme was Zombie Prom, which explained the crusty fake blood that flaked off as he moved. Where were his glasses? He remembered arriving, giving Tendo a huge hug, everything just dandy.

But then there had been vodka. Not just any vodka—the Russians’ bathtub grain mess that was pretty much lighter fluid in a bottle. And Lord knew the short man was in a very intense love/hate relationship with vodka. But why had he gotten drunk, though?

Had he come with anyone? Mako. Yes, Mako had been a very lovely zombie in an emerald green dress and strategically placed wounds. Girl could pull off a fucking zombie perfectly.

Newt fidgeted, groaning quietly when his head protested. He was on Tendo’s couch and it didn’t look like a toilet after a frat, so maybe the vomit was just his imagination? But then his damn glasses were missing so he couldn’t fully check.

Oh, yeah. He hadn’t worn them because of his costume. Zombie cheerleader, Head Bitch, scorned and out for revenge. Hermann hadn’t been impressed, but when was he ever? Besides, Newt was a rock star. Dressing up as just another Prom King would have been a total snooze.

Each movement hurt in ten different places and Newt whimpered as he turned over, trying to find his balance. Oh, there was the puke. All over the concrete floor in a rather interesting arrow shape. Projectile, for sure.

“Shit fuck.” Newt said miserably. Rolling inelegantly off the couch, he found that what he had thought was fake blood on his face was actually vomit, which had soaked into Tendo’s burgundy couch cushions.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty! How’re you feeling?” Tendo asked jovially as he came from his small kitchenette, wiping down a cup. Newt could barely look his friend in the eye. The biologist had the confidence of ten men in most of his life, but making a fucking ass of himself when he got drunk was in his Top Five Stupid Decisions I Make.

“I puked all over your floor. I’m really sorry, man.” Tendo, precious Tendo, simply grinned.

“I was wondering if you would. I kept saying to myself you’d feel better if you did.” Though Newt was grateful for the blasé acceptance, he was infinitely more so when Tendo tossed him a roll of paper towels and a bottle of cleaner from his end table nearby. Newt was pretty lazy as most things went, but cleaning up his own messes was a matter of honor.

“Yeah, thanks.” Newt worked at cleaning up the vomit, mourning the chili he’d had the night before now clumped on the floor. It had been really fucking good chili and Tendo had made a vegetarian batch just for Newt because of his diet and damn it! Why couldn’t he just be an adult for once!

Cursing under his breath the entire time, the hung-over man made short work of the mess, even making sure to wipe under Tendo’s fancy entertainment system and throwing each used paper towel into the wastebasket with a fierce grunt. Tears pricked at his eyes and Newt swore harder. Like he needed a depressive episode now! But then he almost always got one after drinking past the point of no return. Guilt and remorse always danced so easily with physical discomfort to create an oh-so-fucking fabulous waltz of self-loathing and pity.

“Hey, it’s fine, dude.” Tendo said gently when Newt walked into the kitchenette and handed back the cleaning supplies, still not meeting his friend’s gaze. “I left you some pants and a turtleneck outside of the bathroom. I figured you’d want to change.”

“Can I take a shower, too? I’m feeling pretty gross.”

“Yeah, knock yourself out, man.” Newt smiled weakly as he gingerly made his way to the tiny bathroom allotted to every Shatterdome employee. Yes, there was in fact vomit in his hair, now half dried and disgusting. Just perfect. Newt could dig in kaiju organs all day and handled other people's fluids like a boss, but his own just squicked him like mad.

As he showered, the night’s activities returned more fully to Newt, though each memory sent a new wave of humiliation through him. He at least remembered most of the party this time; other parties were lost to the annals of time. He’d been chatty (what else was new) and witty—at least, he thought so. Mako had left early, though she’d checked with Tendo first to see if it was all right to leave Newt.

“Do you want to stay longer?” She’d asked the biologist tentatively as she had moved to leave. They’d hung out together enough that she knew trying to stop Newt when he was already half-smashed was like trying to stop a Category VI kaiju, but she always made a sincere effort. Newt had giggled a yes and that was all he remembered from the rest of the night with any clarity.

“I suck.” It was a deadpanned declaration. It was the truth. Newt knew he was letting his illness get the better of him again, but fuck! He was so tired of trying to be normal.

The world was ending. His job was on the line. Who would hire him if the Shatterdome shut down? A genius was one thing, but the only one who’d ever managed to work with him long-term—had managed to put up with childish hobbies and constant noise and mood swings—had been Hermann.

And fuck Hermann, too! The stuffy asshole could spout trivia like a game show host and knew a half dozen languages and always wore those damn sweaters but he couldn’t figure out that Newt was in love with him? What the fuck was up with that?

Because Newt was so fucking lost in love with Hermann. He’d had boyfriends and girlfriends and fuckbuddies, sure. He’d even had feelings for a few of them. But Hermann had wormed his stupid little math-y way into Newt’s heart. Like some sort of insect or disease.

Newt had to laugh at comparing his One True Love to malaria, though the action jarred his head and made the man wince as the steam blurred his shitty vision further. Hermann had a cutting, dry wit and loved terrible old movies. He’d even found an ancient VHS player from their childhood years and watched stupid shit like films about giant sand worms and killer trucks. It was somehow both a shock and yet totally unsurprising that snooty Hermann had such a frivolous taste. It suited him perfectly and was just another endearing quality that wounded Newt each day.

Finally clean of both fake blood and vomit (and scrubbed to the point of pain), Newt finished his shower and dressed in the borrowed clothes. Despite only being a bit shorter than his friend, Newt swam in the large red turtleneck, which made him feel small and young. He padded his way back to Tendo, who was casually leaning against his stove and sipping his coffee with a dreamy expression.

“I need a hug.” Newt whispered forlornly. Tendo put down his coffee and enveloped his friend. Newt smiled and finally looked up at Tendo as they broke apart.

“It’s going to be OK, man. I promise.” Newt held out his arms for another hug and Tendo gave it just as strong as the first. Newt felt a little of his funk lift when he finally moved away and Tendo silently offered him the rest of the chili still sitting on the stove. While he moved about putting together his unconventional breakfast—though barely odd by Newt’s standards—the friends chatted about this and that, Tendo tactfully ignoring Newt's real point of sorrow. The short man sat cross-legged on a rusty stool and talked around mouthfuls of chili and corn chips, only slowing down as the brown mush disappeared.

Looking into the nearly empty bowl, Newt felt his melancholy return. His life felt very, very precarious—which really upset Newt. Hermann and his other friends might not see it, but Newt craved routine of his own making. The idea of being homeless, jobless, and not-right-there-friendless was terrifying. Tendo tilted his head sympathetically as his friend’s shrill voice died out.

“You OK, dude?”

“Not really.”

“The world won’t end. Really. We’re working on it and you know with you and me on board everything will work out. How can it not?” Tendo struck a cheesy grin and Newt smiled, though he continued to gaze down into his breakfast. “It’s not just that, though, is it?”

“Nah, it’s not. I mean, I feel like a fucking asshole for being all caught up in my own shit when the world is going to hell. But—" Newt paused, gathering his thoughts as he focused on the man across from him. “It's also the Hermann thing. I just wish I had the fucking guts to tell him.”

Tendo knew, as did Mako, though they were the only ones Newt trusted enough to keep their mouths shut. Luckily neither worked that closely with Hermann or Newt himself outside of passing papers and reports around, so there were very few chances for Newt’s secret to slip.

And Tendo sympathized. The man knew a thing or two about unrequited love, of course, being both a confident—and oftentimes stupid—lover. He could understand loving from afar, though it was never more than a few days before Tendo would smoothly ask out potential mates.

Newt, on the other hand, had a tendency to pine after the ones he really liked . . . But Hermann was single and there wasn’t anything standing in Newt’s way except his own cowardice. And yet, after all their time together and their fights and their rare occasional outings to seedy Hong Kong bars and their even rarer dips into their personal fucked up histories, Newt could never spit it out.

But at least he didn’t have to suffer in silence. Tendo sipped his coffee for a moment before he answered. “You know I’ve told you to just tell him, but I get why you haven’t. If it’s meant to happen, it will. I know that’s a fucking cliché but you guys are pretty close friends. If something doesn’t come of that pretty soon, maybe it’ll be time to move on.”

Newt frowned in resignation. “Yeah, I know.”

“But the thing is, man, you’re a pretty fucking awesome guy. I don’t make friends with dipshits. And if Hermann isn’t into you, someone will be. I promise.”

Newt's frown lifted into a real smile as he looked over at his friend. Yes, someone would want to be with him. And maybe whoever they were wouldn’t be a tall, handsome asshole genius—though Newt really, really hoped they would be—but whoever they were would see what Tendo saw. What Mako and the Russians and the Weis and all of Newt's other friends saw.

They saw something beyond the childish emotions and the noise and the stubbornness. Newt was special, damn it, just like Tendo said! He was a rock star. Tendo didn't make friends with dipshits and Newt didn't make friends with idiots. If his circle thought he was awesome and cool, then they were right.

He might be fucking terrified right now about a million things and there would be days when the dark cloud of his demons got the better of him again, but Newt didn’t feel like being their puppet any more that day. No matter what happened, he had some of the best fucking friends in the world, and for that moment that was enough.

Newt finished his chili in one gulp and asked for a fucking Halloween sugar cookie, his grin never leaving his face.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is entirely a self-catharsis work. The events within are all almost exactly what happened to me at my Tendo’s annual Halloween party this year. I do have a Hermann of my own (two actually) so all of Newt’s pining is based in truth as well. In fact, outside of the bits about the apocalypse and giant kaiju, this is a pretty accurate portrayal of A) how I generally headcanon Newt, and B) my own struggles with Bipolar Disorder, self-esteem, etc. Please, please, please suggest changes and improvements! Though I want the general gist of the story to stay the same—the themes of friendship and platonic love are essential—I would dearly love any ideas on how to make this a stronger piece.


End file.
